The ones we love but we never could have
I have not dated many women. I don’t exactly fair well in this department. But I have had my fair share of the good, the bad and the ugly of relationships. I have had my worst crush stories. The impossible ones and the ones I could have scored if only I had balls.
Get your seatbelt, tie it up, we are off to the heartbreaking journey of my life and my women. It is going to be along story, hang in there until the end. It is a cautionary tale more so to women that they should never date writers, because, somehow-someway, it will find its way into their novels, poems, or at worst in the newspaper for all and sundry.
Writing is an expressive profession and we write best what we experience. As it happens to either sex, there those we would so much wished to date, make love with for as long as it will take…but through fate, reality and tricky circumstances, we watch them slip through our fingers. This gives the expression, so near, yet so far a whole new meaning.
So without much ado here we go.
My first real crush was a chick called Lydia. She was the prettiest thing in my primary and gave many a boy a wet dream. She came from an average background and had partly grown in town. She spoke fluent Swahili and English like yours truly so naturally we were a cut above the rest. But it took me a whole year to talk to her. When she spoke to me first, I was so elated that it ranks as one of the biggest highlight of my life.
The whole school knew my deepest sexual admiration towards her. The pupils knew and the teachers knew. As a matter of fact, I was once caned for seducing her. We ultimately became friends. She knew that I could swim across the widest river to have her in my arms. Her smile could disarm any Onyancha amidst us, nay, it could melt iron. She had a figure that oozed raw sexual oomph that was a desire for many a boy in the primary school.
Unfortunately, I was inordinately and incurably shy and as it happens, they don’t wait for that long. She went on to one of the TTCs and trained as a teacher, got married to a high school teacher and has three kids to her name and her marriage is not at all stable. But Lydia, I will always cherish you.
My second crush was a tragic story that has quite affected me. The immediate Saturday after the Christmas of 2003, on a market day in my rural home, was a special day. I spotted a beauty that you rarely expect in any given village in Kisii. She had two striking things: beauty and grace. She was of good height, no more than 5’8, wore shiny, flowy, sky blue skirt and a white top and they all fit into her so well that the tailor must have been having her in mind when making them.
She looked lovely and possessed a cheerful smile that swept my feet away. I was thunderstruck.
Tragedy: we met at a junction and didn’t know the turn she was likely to take.
Catastrophe: She looked the type who was likely to shun me away, because everything about screamt urban.
Disaster: Immediate action was required yet there was little I could do. I was in high school and pathetically clueless and new to that place
Emergence: Something had to be done and I didn’t know what exactly.
In short, I was in shit.
I inquired from my friend and luckily enough, he knew her, or at least where she came from. Immediately a rendezvous was organized and two days later, I met her by a communal well. She was in her element. There is something incredibly sexual about a woman who is self-conscious of her beauty and does not disguise it nor flaunts it.
Her name was Mercy and she schooled somewhere in the Rift-Valley and came from an average family in their complex extended family. She gave me audience. My guide had insisted that she could only listen to me if I told her I’m an urbanite, for she was-as expected-dating the son of the richest bugger around. So my chances were limited and only my seductive skills could rescue me.
She turned out to be outrageously funny, thought provoking and I had to up my wanting seductive game. She listened to me. She laughed at my jokes. She teased me. She dismissed me. She accepted me. I loved her. She loved me. But we never rushed things. Schools opened and we all went back.
For a whole year, we never communicated. But I never lost touch. Her smile drove me. Her laughter lit my day and I counted her as my sweetheart. After high school, we met that December and she still looked just fine. We picked from where we left. We had a date. That day our love was supposed to consummate. My dutiful and loyal guide, apparently enjoying my good time vicariously, ensured that everything was ready. Everything=condoms and a well spread bed.
After taking the winding route through the coffee plantation to the saiga( which is where young men sleep in my community.), we arrived and sat in the sitting room. We had a long discussion about her aspirations, dreams, vision, and all that. I had made it to campus, and her, even though she had passed, she had not mustered the right grade to gain the JAB entrance into the University.
In her disposition, she exuded a feeling hitherto unfelt by me. She spoke in a low pensive tone. We spoke the future. We spoke the past. And we dwelt on the present. When I asked her a sexual favour to crown everything, she gave me that ‘NO’ look that revealed the fears and emotions in her eyes. Her eyes had questions that begged answers. Answers that only time could give.
The gentleman I am, I didn’t dangle that carrot any further because I wanted our love to blossom. My guide nearly killed me when he realised that I had done absolutely nothing. I had not even caressed her much less undressed her. We promised to love each other. I saw the power of God in her. She was the someone for me. I vowed to love her. She didn’t promise much but everything was pegged on my commitment.
No sooner I left the village than some sucker showed up in baggy jeans confused her and eloped with her to the city. I was genuinely discouraged and the circumstances I was in were legitimately tricky. I was far, broke like an ass and totally cut from her.
As the story goes, Mercy got pregnant, had a complication that cost her life. For all the time she was in hospital, yours truly never had the time to check on her.
Mercy died at a time I had just buried my grandmother prior to the 2007 elections. I didn’t get money to go back to the countryside and the post-election-violence looked me out. She left with a part of me. Forever, I will treasure her smile, her benign sense of humour and inculcating the spirit of courtship in me. I know she is in a better place and will certainly read this blog. Hopefully too, she has met a woman who would have made her perfect mother-in-law.
It is been quite some time, mum are you there? Hang in there.
My third rush that I wanted to write about happened in campus. When I joined first year, in my initial Political Science class, there was this chick seated behind me with a snobbish face. She took after my immediate ex, whom we had parted ways, because she was a staunch Jehovah Witness hell bent on converting me.
My observation would have been no more than that had she not risen to superb sartorial splendor. She wore a cement grey checked
Skirt, red top, nice black middle high-heels that gave her that suave, sexual swag. She looked aristocratic. The type that listens to soft rock and reads some eccentric novels. Instantly I admired her though deep within I knew she was beyond my reach. She had equally a good name to her pretty face and wore that ‘I-don’t-really-are -what -you -think -of -me.
I met soon afterwards, exchanged pleasantries. She spoke so well that the peasant got so excited to even sleep that night. I imagined seven hundred thousand, six hundred and seventy nine things with her body and some the cannibal in me was reawakened.
She was not exactly beautiful in the conventional sense. She was pretty, but most men did say that she was possibly the hottest in lass, that debate is still going on. I hated it when she was not even mentioned to be a contender and many boys told me to get over the rush that nearly bordered on the irrational. Easier said than done.
But when a vehicle nearly ran over me in that sunny, deserted afternoon along University Way chasing after her shadows, I had to rethink again. There was something ominous about this. Something premonitory. I chose to hang up on the chase but thing with the heart is that what the heart has chosen. The heart has chosen.
For the next two years, I tossed with the idea of going after her but something kept pulling me back. I decided to let her know what my true feelings were so that I could drop her and move on. She was proving to be bad for business.. So when I eventually mustered all the courage that balls could bring forth, I dialed her number requested to have a brief meeting with her. She granted me the meeting.
So when the day came for me to confess, I sat her down, smart as ever, both in looks, in dressing and brains and narrated my three year ordeal. God forbid, she was hardly moved, nor did she cry that I could have died chasing after her. I hated her assumptive guts. I loved her honesty.
It was very cathartic and learnt a couple of things
One, we should learn to let go some things. They are not worth. If they were not meant to be, they can’t be.
Two, one man trash is another man’s treasure and behind every beautiful woman is a tired man. I just hope my crashes don’t fall into these categories.
And finally; nothing lasts forever.